


The Bargain

by Rubynye



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Dark, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What will you give me," says Edgerton, "not to shoot your brother?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/Spoilers: AU. **Non-consensual.** Incest, violence, no spoilers.  
> Acknowledgements: [](http://lomedet.livejournal.com/profile)[**lomedet**](http://lomedet.livejournal.com/) for wisdom and handholding; [](http://emmademarais.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://emmademarais.livejournal.com/)**emmademarais** for the prompt and boundless encouragement.

 

"What will you give me," says Edgerton, "not to shoot your brother?"

Charlie's glance flickers across the little cabin, away from the terrifyingly calm man sitting on the bare mattress, over to Don. From here Charlie can see only the close-cut top of his head and his lividly bruised left temple, because he's slumped over the rope around his chest, his wrists handcuffed to the back legs of the heavy wooden chair. If Charlie hates himself for anything in this moment it's that he briefly wishes Edgerton were asking Don this question, that he were the one unconscious in that chair. Don would know what to say, what to do, how to handle Mr. #7 on the Ten Most Wanted list. Even before he enrolled in the FBI Academy, Don would've known.

But all the Eppes brothers have right now is Charlie, who takes a deep breath, doesn't let himself twist his hands together, and offers, "We've got some money --"

Edgerton gestures with the shiny black handgun in his left hand, its range of trajectories sweeps heartstoppingly across Don, and Charlie shuts up. "Money doesn't interest me," Edgerton says negligently. "My work brings me enough for my needs. What I want are new... experiences." He strokes the rifle lying across his lap, rolls it into his hand, and sets it gently amidst the other guns on the table as he stands, his movements smooth and predatory. Edgerton keeps the handgun, Charlie notices, his involuntary step back pressing him against the wall. His heart bangs against his ribcage, faster and faster as Edgerton stalks towards him, swinging the pistol, starting to smile.

It is not a reassuring smile, as Edgerton looms over Charlie. When he strokes Charlie's cheek with his empty calloused hand it's not any less disquieting than when he strokes the other with the hard cool muzzle of his handgun. "New people, new sensations." He trails the gun barrel down Charlie's jaw, along his throat, and Charlie can't breathe, can only shudder against the cold unbreakable wall. "So let me ask again, young Mr. Eppes," Edgerton says with silky menace, leaning in against Charlie, not looking behind him as he aims unerringly at Don's head, "What will you give me not to kill your brother?"

This can't be happening, Charlie wants to think, but it is, it unavoidably is. Edgerton presses steadily against Charlie, inescapably hard in his tight jeans, and Charlie wants to stop shivering, wants to close his eyes, wants to be safe with Don a thousand miles away. Instead he forces his chin up, his throat so tacky dry that swallowing is painfully futile, makes himself meet Edgerton's glittering eyes, and whispers, "Anything you want."

Edgerton grins and lays his gun flat on Charlie's cheek, solid cool metal, imminent death. "What I want, my pretty," he says, making Charlie's guts twist and his teeth clench, "are three orgasms. One for you, one for me, one to be determined later. And, of course, whatever leads up to them."  
He wedges his knee between Charlie's, compressing Charlie's chest with his, as inflexible as the wall. "Just a little of your time, and I'll let you both go." His breath stirs the curls on Charlie's forehead like a hot breeze. "So, Charlie." He curls his free hand, finger by finger, around Charlie's throat. "Is it a deal?"

When Charlie swallows his throat presses into those fingers, a light deadly cage around his voicebox. All the decision trees dead-end, he has no way to estimate Edgerton's truthfulness, no other option but to agree., As he nods his chin brushes Edgerton's firm dry hand, and when Edgerton leans down to kiss him, lips leather-soft and almost gentle, something snaps inside him and he really starts to shake.

*******************************************************

Don is still breathing, Charlie tells himself over and over. Don is still alive, and as long as he stays alive it doesn't matter what Edgerton does to him (watching sardonically as he made Charlie undress, beckoning Charlie over with the gun like an extension of his hand), what Edgerton makes him do (pushing him to his knees, saying, "all those years in the ivory tower, you must have learned how to suck cock, right?", pushing his fingers into Charlie's stupid too-long curls and hauling his head down), or how he feels (dizzy and choked, numb and shaking, knees aching against the rough wooden floor, completely unreal as if he's watching some other curly-haired idiot genius being forced to suck off a smirking criminal with a heap of guns). None of it matters, even if pausing and holding his breath makes his chest hurt worse, even if his scalp burns to match when Edgerton impatiently yanks on his hair, as long as he holds onto the sound of Don breathing, steady and slightly raspy, in and out.

"I know this is fun," Edgerton says, and Charlie's face flares agonizingly, only the gun trailing between his shoulderblades reminds him not to bite, "but get on with -- wait." Charlie stops, and gags on latex again, his nose buried in musky wiry hair; his stomach roils, he completely doesn't want this and if he lets himself follow that line of thought he really will lose it. His heart fluttering triple-time, he holds completely still and listens past the pulse thudding in his ears.

Don snuffles and coughs.

Charlie is going to _die_. He's so relieved his whole body sags, but a simultaneous flush of shame sears down his skin, burning hot between the cold sweat beaded along his spine and the chill lump in his belly. He wants Don to wake up, to be okay, and he would rather be dead than have Don see this and --

"Wha ... _no_." So would Don, his voice rising through a confused mumble to a roar. "No, no, Charlie, no! Edgerton, get your fucking hands off him! Let him _go_ you criminal bastard, let him go!"

Edgerton's dry little chuckle is already sickeningly familiar. "Had a good nap, Eppes?" He gives Charlie's cheek a little dismissive push and Charlie flings himself back, falling on his ass, rolling and skidding towards his clothes--

The gun clicks in Edgerton's hand. Don's teeth snap together, cutting off his voice. Charlie freezes in mid-reach.

"Turn around, Charlie," Edgerton says mildly.

Charlie closes his eyes. There's a soft wet sound behind him, and for a moment his body locks up, he _can't_ turn, but behind him Edgerton has a gun and Don's tied to a chair. He turns.

Edgerton is pointing the gun at him, and though his skin crawls as if it's trying to rip off his body and find its own hiding place, Charlie feels an awful kind of relief. This means it's not pointing at Don. Charlie stares up at the black circle of the muzzle, thinking numbly about spiral grooves and ballistics and the effects of hydrostatic shock on human flesh, not looking at Don thrashing in silent desperation against his bonds, even when the chair thumps the floor.

Not looking at Edgerton's other hand moving on his dick (wet from Charlie's _mouth_ and he can't think about that or he'll fall apart in jagged fragments), lazy strokes like this is just the start of a whole planned sequence. "Your brother's awake," Edgerton says, and Charlie presses his lips tightly and doesn't snap that he can _see_ that. It's not hard to keep quiet when staring up the empty black void of a gun. "Go welcome him to our little party."

Charlie tries not to understand, but his brain hurtles towards the sickening conclusion. Between terror and revulsion, his head jerks sideways, a shake or maybe just a twitch.

Don gets it a moment later. "No, you sick fuck!" he bellows, wrenching at the chair. "No, Charlie, don't! Edgerton, let him go now or I swear I will--"

Edgerton presses the trigger. The gunshot is vast and sharp, drowning everything else out, and it takes several moments before Charlie realizes the blackness is just his eyes closed tight, that he's felt no impact, that he heard the bullet thud into the wall behind his head. "Oops," Edgerton says, "That's my daily miss." He cocks the gun again, and when Charlie can crack his eyes open his pounding heart clenches, because Edgerton is aiming at Don now. "That third orgasm we discussed, Charlie?" Edgerton's voice is flat now, the tone of an explanation that shouldn't be necessary, that someone's going to pay for. "Go give it to your brother. Use your mouth."

"No," Don says, shaking his head wildly, "No, Charlie, no," but Edgerton's holding a gun on him and a cold gaze on Charlie, his smirk unchanged, his hand moving steadily. Charlie shakes so hard he lurches as he gets to his knees, tottering on his feet, hugging himself as he crosses the room, not looking at anything.

But he has to look at Don though his eyes burn, at Don's eyes wide and dark, at his shoulders straining beneath his buttoned shirt. There's an iron tang in the air, and Charlie sees blood on one cuff, and he didn't think his heart could keep on breaking. "Don, please," he whispers, thudding down on his aching knees. "Please, I'm sorry, please."

"Don't do this, you don't have to do this, I'll get you out of here." A tear rolls unnoticed down Don's cheek, and Charlie hasn't seen him cry in fifteen years.

Even Don can't get them out of this now, and it would be worse than shooting him to say that, so Charlie doesn't say anything. Instead he rests his forehead on Don's thigh, hard and warm with life, and thinks about how he can't let Edgerton shoot his brother. Don's next breath sounds painful, and a hot drop hits Charlie's shoulder; Don's voice is choked and hoarse as he insists, "You don't have to do this."

"Oh, but he does," Edgerton drawls behind Charlie, sending ice spreading down his spine, making Don shake beneath him. "Sometime soon, too, 'cause my hand is getting tired. My finger might just-- " _click_ "--slip."

Charlie grits his teeth and forces himself into motion, ripping Don's belt buckle open, fingers slipping on his zipper. "Just -- close your eyes, think of anybody you want." Don's dick, soft and hot, twitches in his hand. "We just have to get through this." His eyes ache with pressure but he's not crying.

"Charlie." He has to hear the agony in Don's voice, to look up into his tearstreaked face. "Charlie, buddy, I can't let you do this. I'd rather die."

Is that supposed to _spare_ him? Charlie closes his eyes, buffeted by pity and anguish and, of all things, anger. "I'm sorry, Don," he whispers, rather than shouting. It's Edgerton he actually hates, smugly watching them fulfill his twisted demands, using them against each other. "I'd rather you stay alive." He turns his face down again, unable to not hear Don's ragged sigh and Edgerton's little chuckle as he starts to suck like their lives depend on it. Because they do.

It's the same and it's different. Some analytical corner of Charlie's mind logs the blood-warmth of Don's salty skin, the way he sobs out a moan, the heft of his dick as it fills on Charlie's tongue. Charlie licks and sucks desperately, no longer drifting, horribly filled with purpose. Making Don come is the best chance to save his life, so Charlie sets himself to it, licking up and down and around the throbbing head, drooling and whimpering and trying not to notice the tears running down his face, the chill prickles along his skin. What he feels doesn't matter; it's what Don feels, it's keeping his side of the bargain, it's the unquantifiable chance that Edgerton will keep his. Don groans, rattling the cuffs, and Charlie's pulse thuds in his ears as he plunges up and down, banging the back of his throat, his flattened lips burning with strain, digging his fingers into Don's rock-hard thighs.

Charlie's lungs burn airlessly, worse now because he's doing this to himself; he can't even hear Edgerton's little comments anymore over his own roaring blood, can't see anything but the crimson flashes behind his eyelids, can't feel anything but Don's dick trembling wet in his mouth. Don is groaning continuously now, sounding hurt, sounding tortured, hips quivering as he struggles to hold still; Charlie's nose is completely stuffed, and he doesn't know if Don took his pathetic advice to imagine someone, but Don's dick twitches when Charlie slurps around the head so maybe for once he's not being quite so stubborn.

Don's breath stutters, his thighs tensing impossibly harder, and he chokes out a warning, "Charlie, Charlie." Feeling relieved, triumphant, and queasy in the same heartbeat, Charlie starts to pull off, but a hard strong hand lands on his nape, pushing him down until Don's dick hits the back of his throat. Don shouts something angry and pained, but he's shaking like an earthquake, crying out sharply as he comes in spurts down Charlie's throat, half-drowning him. Charlie struggles, pushing back, scrabbling at Edgerton's wrist, but Edgerton just holds him there as he chokes, his head spinning from lack of air. Above him, muffled and distant beyond his ringing ears, Don coughs and swears and says, "Let him go or I'll kill you."

Edgerton complies at once, laughing as Charlie falls back against his legs, so racked with airless coughing he can't even catch himself. "You can't hurt a fly, Eppes," he says, grabbing Charlie's bicep bruisingly and yanking him to his feet, dragging him away from Don while he's still choking and coughing, his mouth full of thick bitterness, tear-blinded and shuddering from Edgerton's grip outwards.

"I will hunt you down like the dog you are." Don snarls, the chair scraping the floor. Charlie scrubs his hand across his streaming eyes just in time for the room to whirl; his back hits the mattress, and at least Edgerton's not touching him right now. Still coughing, unsure if he's gasping or crying, Charlie curls up, trying to make his brain work, trying to still himself.

"Really, and risk that promising career?" But the mattress dips as Edgerton climbs onto it, and Charlie balls up tighter, and he has to be crying because tears are rolling down his face. He's worse than useless like this, shuddering under Edgerton's hand trailing down his back, sobs tearing through him like they're ripping out bits of his insides.

"Fuck you, get away from him," Don shouts, but his voice doesn't sound hard like before, it sounds wet and clogged, and it makes Charlie shake until his teeth rattle. He's not helping Don at all, and he can't help himself as Edgerton peels his arms away from his head and wedges his legs apart, pinning his wrists with an iron grip, pushing him flat on his back with terrifying efficiency. "Please," Don and Charlie gasp in unison, and Don keeps on begging, like he never would for himself, trying to help Charlie. "Please, he's traumatized already, just let him go. You've got me. Hurt me if you want, but let Charlie go."

"You're a fine specimen, Eppes," Edgerton says, breath hot over Charlie's wet face, "but you're not my type." He licks Charlie's cheek as if tasting him, his tongue a broad wet flex of muscle, and Charlie's guts twist, he whimpers and hates himself for being so weak. Edgerton licks Charlie's lips, though Charlie clamps them shut against his pushing tongue, and murmurs, "mmm, your brother tastes good on you," searing Charlie with mortification.

Then Edgerton lets go and climbs off Charlie, completely unexpectedly. Coughing dizzily, Charlie pushes himself to sitting, into the air empty over him, scrubs his face and struggles to think. Edgerton crosses back to Don, who looks up in angry confusion, and his grin spreads out, wide and sharklike, as he drags his knuckles down Don's cheek. Don's eyes squeeze shut, his mouth goes tight, his whole body shivers rigidly, and curses whirl through Charlie's mind that he can't make himself shout. "However, you boys did put on quite the show," Edgerton purrs. "Maybe I can be a little generous."

Still heaving, Charlie tries to unstick his mouth and say something, anything to get Edgerton away from Don, tries to make himself consciously draw Edgerton's attention even though his skin crawls at the thought. But Edgerton lets something long and dark unfurl from his other hand -- Don's tie, Charlie even recognizes it, a birthday gift from a year or two ago. "Besides, you're kind of mouthy," Edgerton adds, and when Don starts to reply, shoves a smaller wad of cloth into his mouth and quickly loops the tie around his head.

That can't be good. But right now, Charlie realizes, he's nearer to the table of guns than Edgerton is. Instead of watching Don thrash and struggle against being gagged, he pushes himself towards the opportunity, swallowing hard over the nervous flutter in his belly, pressing his hand to the wall to lever himself up as quietly as he can--

"Where," Edgerton drawls, without even glancing back at Charlie, "do you think you're going?"

Charlie freezes, his heart banging into his ribs, just long enough to realize he should keep moving -- but as he lunges, Edgerton whips around and tackles him to the mattress, punching him in the left temple. Everything explodes into stars and lightless pain, and all Charlie can think, as his brain ricochets dizzily and Edgerton hauls him bodily back where he was, is that he never had a chance.

"Charlie," Edgerton says softly, stroking up Charlie's forehead through his curls, until Charlie gathers himself enough to flinch. "Charlie, look at me." Edgerton's hands on his forehead and around his wrist, hard inescapable body atop him, gunsmoke and musk filling his nose, cool voice echoing into his head, Charlie squeezes his eyes shut and uselessly wishes he were anywhere but here.

Then he makes his head tip back, obediently looking up. "Don't do that again," Edgerton tells him, avuncularly tapping his nose. "I like your face better without marks." He pats Charlie on the throbbing spot where he just punched him. "Your brother, however, is improved by a few bruises, a scrape or two. Maybe I'll smack him next time you misbehave. Or shoot him."

Charlie can feel a scream pushing up his throat, but he swallows it down, he makes himself whisper, "You can't shoot him. We have a deal."

"That we do." Edgerton shifts against Charlie. "Round 2, right?" Edgerton nuzzles his hair in a parody of tenderness, breathing hot across his face, and Charlie clenches his fists, something like calm or shock spreading inside him, a welling pool of numbness. The pain in his head is ebbing, maybe his brain can detach from this, maybe he can just--

Edgerton's hand slides down, tangible and awful over Charlie's throat, over his ribs, over his shuddering belly, and Charlie's breath stutters. Edgerton pulls his fingertips lightly over Charlie's dick, and Charlie cringes all over, folding into himself like he's imploding, trying to roll away.

Edgerton pins him by his shoulder with one hard hand, and Charlie's mouth flies open; even though he knows in his receding rational mind that it won't work he gasps, "please stop, please." Edgerton just smirks as Charlie babbles helplessly, twisting, struggling. "Please don't do this, I can't, please let us go, please don't --"

"All right," Edgerton says, easy and relaxed, squeezing Charlie's shoulder as if he could be reassuring. "Just give me one thing."

"What?" Charlie gasps. Anything to get out from under Edgerton's grasping hands, his heavy hard body, anything for this to be over.

"Your brother's life." Edgerton's eyes glitter, black as his gun. "He'll tick over my odometer."

Edgerton's words slam into Charlie like blows, like bullets, and he collapses with a weak little hurt noise, turning his face away. Edgerton snickers into his ear and nips along the upper curve, letting go of his wrist to bring that hand to Charlie's mouth. "Well, Charlie?" he asks, trailing his raspy fingertips over Charlie's lips. "Want me to let you go and shoot your brother? Or will you open up for me again?"

Charlie parts his lips, shuddering as Edgerton slides two fingers in. Edgerton bites him and strokes him and presses on his tongue, and Charlie lies there like a mannequin made of lead. He can't fall into his mind, even by counting heartbeats, Edgerton keeps dragging him out, but he doesn't have to help the bastard one bit.

So Edgerton lifts his head and pulls his fingers from Charlie's mouth, murmuring, "don't forget to breathe."

Charlie figures it out just fast enough to dread, jerking as he gasps, "no," but Edgerton switches hands, catching his wrists together, pushing them down over his head as he pushes those wet fingers searingly into Charlie's body.

As fast as it spread, Charlie's numb calm evaporates, and he can hear himself screaming, feel himself arching, his throat and his ass burning. Edgerton laughs and bites him, teeth hot and sharp over his pulse like the slightest additional pressure could rip his throat out, and Charlie knows all he's succeeding in doing is entertaining the man, but he can't be still. The burn and the pain and oh, God, no, pleasure too, they all crackle together up his nerves as his writhing rubs his cock against Edgerton's belly, as the agony swells and flares, as Charlie's throat aches from shouting. Charlie wrenches one hand free but trying to fight is as much use as punching a wall, Edgerton just laughs at him and pins him again.

"No," Charlie cries out, "no no no," as those invading fingers twist inside him, as he realizes in shock that he's going to come; Edgerton strokes his dick fast and dry until he does come in painful judders, clenching around the fingers sunk deep in him, jerking under Edgerton's weight, shattering inside like a bag of glass. "No," Charlie whimpers, as Edgerton's lips smear across his forehead, as the fracture lines craze over his brain and sobs shudder out of him.

"There we go," Edgerton mutters, sliding his hand off Charlie's spent dick, and beyond his useless, wrenching crying Charlie can hear the sticky wet sound of another condom being unrolled.

Charlie realizes that Edgerton is slicking himself with his come, and why; panic flashes chilly, sinking to despair. "Kill me," he mutters between sobs. "Just kill me."

"Why would I do that?" Edgerton pushes his leg up, compressing the air out of him, and once he would've found it uncomfortable, but now there's no point to caring. "That would make your brother unhappy. Got a good view, Eppes?" Edgerton tosses that last comment over his shoulder, stripping Charlie off his fingers like an aching glove, switching them for his cock, which feels huge and hot and impossible, if Charlie weren't past fighting. "Nnh, look at me, Charlie, I want to see your eyes."

Charlie sobs and looks up, and Edgerton presses one hand over his throat, over the bites, over his pulse. "Why?" he asks, the only thought left to him.

"Such a pretty genius," Edgerton answers him, pushing into him as if his own body doesn't even belong to him, filling him with pain. "This big brain, unraveling the universe." Edgerton's breath starts to come short, puffs at the end of each phrase, and Charlie sobs and listens, clutching at the mattress, bent in half and aching. "You never calculated this, did you?" Edgerton's sweat soaks into Charlie's skin, too deep to scrub out. "You never imagined someone like me."

He hadn't, he really hadn't. Charlie feels his body being shoved into, his mind breaking open, the world crumbling.

Then he hears a muffled sob that isn't his. When he looks up Edgerton is gritting his teeth, eyes narrowed to slits, and beyond his shoulder Don is watching. Snuffling, chest heaving, struggling for air through the soaked gag, his eyes on Charlie.

Charlie stares back into Don's dark agonized eyes, even as his flutter towards shutting every time he winces, even though there's a cry pushing thrust by straining thrust up his throat, even as Edgerton curses over him in three languages and hammers into him harder and harder. Even when Edgerton's fist tightens around his throat until he's gasping for air, the edges of his vision shredding into darkness, he stares back at Don. He never would've wanted him here, but they are here together. Charlie has his brother with him, he's not alone.

Edgerton comes silently, shaking through Charlie, and slumps over him, blocking his view of Don, the connection severed like a physical cut. Charlie can't stop shaking, wincing audibly when Edgerton pulls out of him, curling up around the pounded-out ache inside him and vaguely wondering how he hasn't thrown up yet. He wants to say, "that's three, now let us go," to find the nearest shower and scour himself, but it seems impossible to even breathe successfully.

"I knew I'd have the most fun with you boys," Edgerton says, the satisfaction in his voice like acid on raw skin. Don tries to yell through his gag, but it comes out muffled and moanlike; Charlie just clutches himself tighter, shuddering too hard to move.

Edgerton walks across the cabin, the locks clinking as he opens them, but he saunters back, taking his time getting dressed while Don emits harsh choked noises and Charlie tries and fails to make himself lift his head. "Here's your keys, Eppes," Edgerton says as they land jingling beside Charlie. "And your phone, look, two bars! You should be able to get someone up here as soon as your clever brother can free you."

Edgerton grabs Charlie's chin then, though Charlie jerks convulsively back. "Charlie," he says, and Charlie can't possibly have become conditioned to that tone, not this way, but he opens his sore eyes. At least he manages to glare despite being crushed and sniffling. He knows he succeeded because Edgerton smiles, just as Don makes a noise that's almost loud, almost sharp. "Goodbye," Edgerton says, and kisses Charlie lightly, laughing as Charlie shudders with exhausted revulsion.

Don gurgles, trying to shout. Charlie blinks heavily, too dazed to duck as Edgerton lifts the shiny black handgun, seemingly in slow motion. He swings it down, cracking it against Charlie's head, and an explosion of darkness blots everything out.

 

***********************************************************

 

Charlie sits bolt upright on the hospital cot. He wasn't asleep, but the last thing he remembers was watching the clock tick past 11 behind the shoulder of an earnest woman who didn't seem to understand why a rape kit would be useless. "You'll only recover my DNA," Charlie told her over and over, listening to his voice unrolling flatly like tape from an adding machine. "Mine and my brother's," he finally amended, and her eyes went wide, and she went away.

But the clock says 1:24 now, and Charlie knows he wasn't asleep.

What he doesn't know is where Don is. Wistfully irritated -- why couldn't he have blacked out when it might have done him some good, he thinks -- he swings his feet to the floor, wincing as the movement sends pulses of soreness through him. Despite the emergency staff's best efforts, he's going to wince whenever he sits or walks for days, he figures.

He's going to remember this... forever. Every time he closes his eyes. The thought stuns him, a blow to his mind he feels all along his body as he clings to the cot for support. The room flickers like a hallucination, like he's really back in that cabin, like Edgerton will reappear any moment, smirking and hard-handed and all over him.

Charlie grips the cool metal rail, forcing himself to feel it, to see the harsh hospital lights overhead. It's over, he tells himself. It's over. He and Don are safe, even if he doesn't feel like it. But the room is too quiet, even with the low hum of activity beyond the doorway. It's empty and open and the skin between Charlie's shoulderblades prickles with unease.

He really needs Don.

Eventually Charlie peels his hands off the cot, pulls his hospital robe tightly around himself, and heads out of his room. The other Eppes on the unit board is five doors down, and the hospital staff rush around him like he's just another obstacle. No one seems to think that a patient who's well enough to walk, however haltingly, needs to be corralled, so Charlie finds Don thankfully soon.

Don is sitting up on his cot, bandages white around his wrists, hands over his face; he doesn't look up until Charlie says "hey," and it's just for a swift, wide-eyed glance before he rolls over with his back to Charlie, dragging the blanket over himself like a shield.

That hurts. Charlie wobbles, falling into the chair by the entrance, sitting sideways on one hip. It's not unexpected, Don is fucking stubborn, but it hurts. So he bites his lip, and he waits; it's less than two hundred heartbeats before Don asks, still facing the wall, "What're you doing here?"

"I need you," Charlie says simply, because he doesn't have anything else left besides the truth. "And you need me."

"You need me?" Don's shoulder hunches as he curls in on himself, like Charlie did on that mattress. "What do you need me for? I failed you."

Don must have nothing left, too, to say even that much. Charlie heaves himself out of the chair and limps over; Don's shoulder is like a rock between them, and Charlie tries to reach out, but his arm won't move past the memories of the last time he touched his brother, his hand involuntarily cramps closed.

But he can talk, word by word. "You didn't." He can breathe in and out, he can get this said. "You didn't fail me."

"He got away." Don starts on a reproachful litany. "He got you there by using me. I couldn't rescue you. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't even--" Don chokes, and Charlie knows what's next on the list.

"He didn't kill you." Charlie swallows hard. "And I'm sorry, but I couldn't let you die."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." That's heartening, even if Don mumbles it into the pillow, even if it makes Charlie's throat constrict. He hugs himself, swaying behind Don, waiting for his throat to untighten.

When it does, Charlie says, "At least we're in this together."

That makes Don roll over and look at him incredulously, eyebrows flying up, new stress lines grooved into his forehead. "Are you _glad_ I was there?"

"Uh." Charlie shakes his head, struggling not to laugh, struggling not to sob, his eyes hurting almost as much as his heart does. "Hell, no. No." Another deep breath, or two, or three. "But we're here together. We can --" He chokes for a moment, but he can say this. He has to. "We have to get through this."

"Oh," Don says, and Charlie raises his head, and they stare at each other for several heartbeats. Then Don sits up decisively, throwing his arms out, and Charlie just about falls forward to meet him, slumping as Don's strong arms close around him, pressing his aching eyes shut and his face to Don's shoulder. "You're right, Charlie," Don murmurs over the stitches in Charlie's scalp, finding the exact spot. "You're right. We'll get through this. Together."


End file.
